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‘Hmm.’

‘This is entirely on me.’ And he lowered his voice, told the director about the row with his lover, who didn’t actually exist, how he’d messed up a trade. ‘You know how it is, Damon.’

‘Even so,’ Damon sulked, ‘while we love having you on set, Conte…’

‘Please, it’s Gabriel.’

They chatted for a few moments, and when Damon was putty and melting to intense grey eyes, and Gabe was satisfied that Stella was off the hook, Gabe moved away and leant on his freshly chipped balustrade, watching the dreadful actor mess up his lines again. And again. Seriously, he could do a better job! But then something seemed to click, and Gabe amended that thought, because suddenly he was no longer an actor, and had become the part he was playing—in shocked disbelief confronting his killer wife.

‘D…d…darling,’ he stammered. ‘Did you, or did you not…?’

‘What do you think?’ sneered his crazed wife, her eyes blazing.

God, but Geo would have loved this.

Had Stella not been standing a few feet away and pregnant then he might even have smiled.

‘Gabriel…’ He barely looked over as the throaty voice of Donatella hit and he just carried on watching the actors. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘I could say the same.’ He glanced over and saw that she wore a navy lanyard marked Visitoro, then he saw Accesso limitato and, had he not been so agitated about Stella, might have smiled about that—Donatella would not like being given a limited access pass. ‘What are you doing on set?’

‘I’m the local historian; I have been helping. No one knows Sant Lavia like me.’

Gabe’s eyes shuttered, he just didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with Donatella now but, even ignored, she continued.

‘There is so much chaos here. It’s not exactly relaxing for you.’

‘Apparently they’ll be finishing up for the day.’

‘Yes, but then they have to put up scaffolding to film the car scene…’

It was actually fascinating, not that he was going to get into conversation with Donatella. But then she made him an offer.

‘You are welcome to stay at mine.’

He didn’t even deign to reply.

‘Or—’ Donatella seemed anxious to steer him away ‘—I can speak with the hotel and arrange…’

‘Merda,’ he growled. ‘I don’t need you to be looking out for me.’ How much clearer did he have to make it? He glanced over, his eyes searching for Stella as Donatella flounced off.

There she was.

Smiling, and she’d found her pen.

He had, rather arrogantly, assumed that he’d be the one to break the spell of them. That after their night in London he’d dive into another relationship, just to forget the bliss of her.

A year ago, it had been as shallow and as easy as that.

Instead, the dry spell had turned into a drought.

A year later, he was still drawn to Stella.

Now, from a safer distance, he took in the changes in her.

Her body seemed to be taunting him. The rounded stomach, the swollen breasts, it killed, not just that she’d been with someone else, or that she’d moved on.

But a baby…